The Railroad War (28 page)

“No-o!” the man cried out with horror, flinching backward and raising his arm to shield the small patch of flesh that was
visible. “Yer don’t want ter see me fice. You’d die ter see it, mum.”

“I won’t hear that,” she said, laughing, to Becky’s astonishment. And before either the man or Becky could grasp what she
was doing, Fanny was out of her chair and striding to him. He tried to scuttle away, but she was too quick for him. She ripped
off his hat and muffler and grasped his chin, lifting it up so that she could take a hard look at his face.

When she had revealed who it really was, she roared with laughter.

“Ash Kemble!” she cried between peels of delight. “Ash! You mountebank! What did you do this for? Why don’t you approach me
as any normal man does?”

“Because I’m not a normal man,” he said, laughing with her and straightening himself up to his normal height. “And you, my
love, are no normal woman.”

“And these are
your
roses, of course,” she squealed, grabbing the entire bunch from her shocked attendant and twirling herself around with the
roses in her arms.

“They’re yours now,” Ash Kemble said.

“Becky!” Fanny said, still whirling ravishingly. “This gentleman is my dear friend, Ash Kemble, an American and the uncle
of my children.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Becky said, still much taken aback.

“Stop,” Ash said to Fanny, laying a restraining hand on her shoulder. “You’ll have yourself intoxicated even before we start
on the champagne.” And then he held his other hand out to Becky. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said. And she
curtsied.

“But Ash,” Fanny asked, for it had at that moment dawned on her that he had just returned from Georgia, “you haven’t brought
my Miranda back.” If Miranda had returned with her uncle, Fanny realized, she would have accompanied him now.

“She chose to stay at Raven’s Wing,” he said quietly.

“But why?” she asked, upset. “There’s no reason for that—unless
he
influenced her decision.”

“No, Fanny, I don’t think he did. But,” he paused, grim-faced, “I have some serious news, and this is not the most pleasant
place to tell it.”

“Bad news?” Fanny asked, alarmed.

“Ariel, Miranda, and Lam are well,” Ash said, calming her.

“Then tell me,” she demanded. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

“At dinner,” he said.

The restaurant he chose for her was a small, elegant place in Mayfair owned by an exiled Polish revolutionary named Tadeusz
Kopicki. It was for all intents and purposes a private club; no sign or nameplate announced it to the vulgar public, and no
one who was not well-known to Count Kopicki was admitted.

Ashbel Kemble was admitted instantly and with the obsequious deference usually accorded by the count to a member of the British
Royal Family. The count effusively escorted Ash and Fanny to a private dining room, left briefly, and returned with a magnum
of Dom Pérignon, a bucket of ice, long-stemmed, fluted crystal glasses, and a multitude of extravagant fluorishes.

Once Fanny and Ash were comfortably seated and their glasses were shimmering with champagne, the count announced that he would
return shortly with their meal.

“I took the liberty of ordering in advance,” Ash said after the count had departed.

“Thank you,” she said. “That takes a considerable load off of me,” she added with a sly, coquettish smirk. “But,” she went
on in a rush, “tell me your news. I want to hear about my girls and about Lam. Is the South losing? Are the reports accurate?
I hope so! I truly hope the Confederacy is defeated soon and solidly.”

“In time. In time,” he said, raising his glass to her. “I have much news for you, but you’ll hear all of it, I promise. First,
however, a toast to you.”

“Yes, my dear,” she said reluctantly, still impatient to learn what he was holding back from her, “I’m delighted to see you
safely again, too.” And she touched his glass with hers. They both sipped once. Then he got down to the business of telling
her the tale of his trip to Kemble Island.

The story of the events leading up to the death of her former husband fascinated her. Even after so many years of separation,
she still hated him, yet she was saddened to learn of the attack of apoplexy that killed him.

On the other hand, she was delighted to learn that Ariel’s boy was turning into such a beautiful, happy, and mischievous child.
She had seen the boy just after he was born, shortly before the start of the war, and Ariel had managed to send a photograph
of the two-year-old to her in London. But now that he was a real person, and therefore interesting in his own right, Fanny
wanted to know as much about him as she could.

Her great disappointment, predictably, was that Miranda had chosen not to escape from the terrible war-torn land when she
had the chance and when she no longer had her father’s needs to consider!

“What could possibly have gotten into the girl?” she asked Ash. “Why does she stay in that dismal hell, when she could be
with me here in the comforts of London?”

“I don’t know, Fanny,” Ash said. “I’m as baffled by her choice as you are.”

“It’s not baffling; it’s mad! Why didn’t you abduct her? You have ten times the sense that she does. Knock her on the head
and tie her up and carry her off.”

Ash laughed at that. “It’s not my practice to force my will on women.”

“Fiddlesticks!” Fanny said, shaking her head in frustration.

“As you may have noticed, Fanny, your younger daughter has a will of her own. In this she rather takes after her mother. It
seems to me possible that the very reason you adore her so—id est, you are both as alike as peas in a pod—is the reason why
she has chosen to remain behind rather than come here. There she is on her own. Here she is your daughter.”

“She’s helpless and without protection there.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said honestly. “She has managed to run Raven’s Wing with some success, in spite of the war. I even
think she likes it.”

“What’s a young girl like her doing running a plantation?”

“Fanny,” he laughed, “you of all people are not the woman to find fault with her for her independence.”

“It’s not the same as it is with me,” Fanny muttered weakly.

“Oh?” he said, tilting his face toward the ceiling and raising his eyebrows dramatically. “I don’t see very much difference.
I truly don’t.” He faced her again. “But,” he said more seriously, “I plan to make another trip to Georgia almost immediately.
I’ll be going to Atlanta, among other places. If you like, I’ll keep track of her.” He laughed again. “And I don’t mind that
chore. I adore the child myself—perhaps nearly as much as you do.”

“You are going back so soon?” Fanny asked, drawing in her breath. A thought had suddenly formed in her mind.

“I arrived in Liverpool night before last on my own
Miranda,”
he said. He had named two of his fleet blockade runners after Fanny’s daughters. “I’m leaving as quickly as she can be restocked
and loaded with cargo.”

“Why?” Fanny asked. “Why must you risk that perilous voyage so soon after you’ve returned? Don’t you have other responsibilities?”
She was referring to his other varied business interests. The bulk of his shipping business had no connection with running
the blockade to southern ports.

“Because of the nature of this cargo, or of a portion of it, at least,” he amended. “The bulk of
Miranda’s
cargo will be brass shell casings. But I’ll also keep in my own cabin eight chests of even more valuable goods.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“Morphine, chloroform, quinine. The South is almost bereft of these drugs, and casualties are mounting. An ounce of morphine
or chloroform will fetch a hundred gold dollars in Atlanta.”

“How large are the chests?”

“Fifty pounds apiece.”

“And you want to take personal charge of them?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Those chests should bring me over half a million dollars in Atlanta.”

“You
are
a sly one, Ash Kemble,” she said, her voice brimming with admiration. But then suddenly she shuddered with alarm. “What if…?”
She left the thought unfinished.

“What if I’m attacked by pirates? Highwaymen? Federal gunboats? Dragons of the deep?” He smiled.

“Don’t joke about it. At least two of those are very real possibilities.”

“That’s why I must take personal charge of the chests.”

“Yes, I see,” she said a little absently. The thought that had been forming in her mind had taken much firmer shape. She leaned
toward him and extended her hands, grasping his. “I will go with you,” she whispered, her soft voice thrilling with audacity.

“Fanny!”

“I must!”

“Why, Fanny?” he managed, much taken aback, shaking his hands free of hers. “Whatever for? Surely not to help me guard my
cargo!”

She laughed at the absurdity of that. “No, no. I don’t care about your cargo. I must have passage to Georgia, and that’s where
you are going. I must go to Miranda so long as Miranda refuses to come to me.”

“I think that such a voyage would be ill-advised,” Ash said carefully. He knew better than to refuse her outright. “It
is
dangerous, and you are not exactly well loved in Georgia.” Fanny had published three volumes of her journals, written during
her stay in Georgia with Pierce. The journals, on the one hand, were a vivid personal account of life in a southern plantation,
and on the other they were a fierce phillipic against slavery. They had an impact only slightly less than
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
itself.

Fanny raised one of her shoulders, and shifted her eyes down toward that shoulder. “I don’t want to hear any of your logic,
Ash Kemble.” She snapped her eyes back to him. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m joining you!”

“No, Fanny,” he said. “It’s impossible.”

“Ash, I’m going with you to Georgia—I must. The risk is mine. Don’t speak to me of impossibility. Tell me when your
Miranda
sails.”

“Fanny!
No!”

“Now that that’s settled,” she smiled brightly, drawing away from him and relaxing in her seat, “and you are resigned to my
presence on your ship, pour me another glass of champagne, please my darling.”

“Fanny, no,” he repeated, more weakly this time. All along, she had seen, correctly, that he really wanted her company and
was only going through the motions of standing in her way.

“Champagne, darling,” she repeated, extending her glass.

“Yes, Fanny,” he said.

Meridian, Mississippi

A telegram from Secretary of War Seddon arrived in Meridian, Mississippi, on the first of August. The telegram ordered General
Joseph Johnston to authorize the “salvage of locomotives said to be stored in the northern portions of the State of Mississippi
and the transport of said locomotives by the fastest and most feasible means to Atlanta, Georgia, for further disposition.”

General Johnston sent a return telegram to the Secretary indicating that he would comply with the Secretary’s orders. Then
Johnston did nothing at all to implement Seddon’s commands. Or rather, to give Johnston his precise due, he did very little.

First, Johnston determined that Noah Ballard and Noah Ballard alone would be responsible for bringing the locomotives to Atlanta.
And then, having so determined, Johnston found that he was unable to spare Noah Ballard from more important work, disregarding
the fact that Noah had nothing at all to do. The Yankees in Mississippi were camped for the summer. The military action in
the western Confederacy had shifted to the area around Chattanooga, which General Bragg was trying, and failing, to hold with
his Army of Tennessee against General Rosecrans’s Army of the Cumberland.

Under these circumstances, there was not a great deal for the army in eastern Mississippi under Johnston to do, except to
lick their wounds, regroup, and see about getting resupplied, insofar as that was possible.

When Johnston tired of Noah Ballard’s respectful submissions that he would be more profitably employed following the wishes
of Secretary Seddon and salvaging the locomotives, Johnston ordered Noah to proceed to Jackson, which the Union forces had
evacuated before the beginning of August, in order to make an inventory of the railroad equipment and facilities there. “I
need to know what’s left there after Sherman’s wreckers did their worst,” he said.

“But, sir,” Noah asked with courtesy, “what about the sixty-seven locomotives we should be fetching now?” He hoped the general
would catch his implication. The longer they delayed retrieving the machines, the greater the likelihood that the Yanks would
discover at least some of them.

“You’re talking about a substantial expedition,” Johnston said, “when you go up there and get those damned things. I can’t
just send a few men to work them; I’ve got to send men to keep Grenville Dodge’s people off the operation. You’ve had a bit
of experience with what I’m talking about, and I just can’t spare any troops for that purpose.

“You go on over to Jackson and find out for me what I need to know. And perhaps we can talk about those sixty-seven locomotives
after you get back.”

There’s no stopping Joe Johnston, Noah thought afterward, when he’s intent on putting something off. He is the most brilliant
master of delay in the history of warfare. Fabius Maximus is a novice compared with him.

Fabius Maximus was the legendary Roman general who harassed Hannibal without risking a pitched battle. He won the war by delaying
rather than fighting.

Will Hottel, who was a man of vast resources, claimed that he could overcome Johnston’s persistent disinclination to do anything
about the sixty-seven locomotives, but even Hottel had limits to his resources. It would take time to make things work, he
said.

And so Noah Ballard went to Jackson.

As the train slowly clanked and sputtered its way west, Noah’s mind kept returning to Jane Featherstone. He’d still had no
word of or from her.

Why? he wondered. Where can she possibly be? Dead?